


Buckles and Lace

by Caritas_Lavellan



Series: Earth Mind: Alternative Perspectives [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Day, Fluff, For New Year’s Eve romantics, Idiots in Love, Leliana knows all, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 05:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caritas_Lavellan/pseuds/Caritas_Lavellan
Summary: Midwinter in Skyhold, the night before the Dragon Age reaches its forty-fifth year. Inquisitor Lavellan has left three of her trusted allies in joint charge of Skyhold while she tracks down her lover, Fen’Harel. Protecting Lavellan’s castle in her absence is the least that Scout Harding can do for the woman who saved Thedas.Which is why when she sees an intruder breaking in late at night, she doesn’t hesitate to shoot.





	Buckles and Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: the Lavellan/Solas relationship remains firmly in the background here, but this story does sit in my [Earth Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/series/306273) universe, where there's plenty of that relationship. This is a chance for Bram and Lace to shine.

Lace Harding stared moodily at her ale, inched closer to the fire in her room, and fingered the papers in her pocket. The smooth one was Varric’s last circular letter from Kirkwall, forwarded from Val Royeaux, with the story of his preparations for the First Day ball to raise more money for the city’s elven alienage. As Viscount he had much to think of, and so the Divine had made it clear that he was not to be troubled yet by the Secret. Only a few of them shared it: that Solas was really an ancient elven god who’d raised the Veil and probably planned to destroy it – and them all.

She shivered. Varric was lucky not to know that.

Most of the time she managed to ignore the burden of the Secret. Someone at Skyhold must know, the Inquisitor had said, to vet the people they’d hire to keep the castle running. Harding’s only other duty in this matter was to send a daily raven to the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, detailing their news. The Divine – the former Nightingale, her boss – wrote every week without fail, enclosing for Baron Desjardins the official gossip, wrapped in the coded truth for Harding.

Her fingers ran over the rough paper carrying the cipher. Leliana had said she was sending Harding a present for First Day, something with lots of buckles. But nothing had made it through the winter storms since the raven – its feathers cold and sodden – had arrived with last week’s letters.

Sometimes Most Holy’s letter was the only connection they had from the world outside; and recently it had held little of hope. Six months had passed since the bright summer’s day when the Inquisitor rode north with Magister Pavus, leaving her new clan here in the Frostbacks. Now Lavellan was somewhere in a forest far to the west of Orlais, a seeming captive in Fen’Harel’s camp, and everyone was waiting for the spring. No general would fight a conventional war in winter; and even though _conventional_ was the last word any of them would have used for Solas, both the Divine and Seeker Pentaghast were sure he would make his next moves only when the days began to lengthen.

And so they waited. Harding was fearful of the new year coming, of First Day and the days to follow.

For lack of anything better to do, and though she’d had enough already, she drained the ale. Getting to her feet, she donned her outer armour. Her shift next out on the battlements, patrolling; she’d planned the rota so the other scouts could enjoy the Last Night party being put on in the Great Hall. The one advantage of Skyhold’s emptiness was a bedroom to herself, a fire she could light and be herself by. Winter had shrouded the Frostback Mountains in deep blankets of ice and snow. Tonight there swirled a blizzard so wild that even the old fortress’ magic couldn’t completely keep it out.

No-one should be out in this weather. But she would be – as long as she could believe that Virlath Lavellan fought against the darkness, Scout Lace Harding would do anything to serve her.

It was hard work even getting to the battlements. The wind whipped at her leather jerkin, its sharp teeth biting at her exposed cheeks and forehead, and she was glad of the scarf she’d wrapped around the lower half of her face. It was hard to see anything more than a few feet away, and she checked the sharp knives at her belt in case she couldn’t use her bow and quiver full of arrows. For a few freezing minutes as she climbed the outside steps by the armoury and started her route she thought she must be mad. Nobody would dare to storm this fortress in such weather, not even an ancient elven trickster god. But as she gained the battlements, the wind and snow died down at last.

The next half-hour was easier – a slow, short walk around and back along the battlements of Skyhold, movement keeping her warm. Sparse candle and firelight from the castle lit the snow, and bounced down yellow from the clouds. Sounds of laughter and music echoed from the Great Hall, where even the Inquisitor’s Dalish clan had been prevailed upon to join the Last Night festivities. It was almost comforting, but she remembered Haven – and knew she must stay vigilant.

Towards the end of her first complete circuit, inspecting each tower as she passed through it, she headed straight towards the Inquisitor’s tower, the tallest one of all. Tonight every window was dark, its stained glass beacon dim. Usually the Baron kept the braziers on its balcony alight at nights, but the wind must have blown them all out. It seemed an ill omen. Shivering again, Scout Harding turned her back on the tower, beginning the return. Ahead of her was the squat mage tower, with scaffolding built round it ready for Desjardins’ masons to begin their refurbishments next week. Down to the right would be the glacier, its sheer ice gleaming blue like the scales of a dragon.

Wait. Would it be blue, or yellow, in this light?

Often she didn’t dare look down at it – nobody would ever come that way, if they were sane, and she _hated_ heights – but some strange compulsion overtook her now. Would it be blue?

She walked to the wall. Holding on tightly, with eyes barely open, Lace looked down. There was the tree that grew beside Andraste’s chapel, at the base of the Inquisitor’s tower. There, just below her, was the defensive walkway that led nowhere. And there, down – _too_ far down – was the glacier.

It was blue. Too far from the castle to be yellow, perhaps.

As she stepped back, dizzy with vertigo, she heard a metallic clang below – somewhere by the mage tower. Plucking an arrow from her quiver, and nocking it ready to fire, Harding crept along the wall, listening closely. Wooden scaffolding surrounded the tower, creaking in the wind, all the way down to where the tower rose beside the locked room with the magic mirror. She sighed under her breath. She’d said to the Baron it was a weakness to have it built straight on to the mountain rocks below, but he’d dismissed her fears. No-one would try to enter that way, he’d said; and the workers must be able to check the foundations of the tower before the rest of the work could proceed.

Well, it sounded like someone was trying to scale the scaffold. If they made it all the way up, they’d get to the walkway, and then they’d be on the battlements. Harding dared to peer through the battlements. Yes, there he was, the bastard: several yards below the walkway, a shadow in the dark,  making little grunts of effort as he climbed, hand over hand. She got into position by the flagpole on the inner wall of the battlements, glad that no banner flew to get in her way. Her arrow was ready. The moment to strike the intruder would have to be when he stepped on to the battlements. She needed to question him; didn’t want to send him rolling down the mountain into the glacier.

There he was. A shoulder was the obvious target. The arrow flew sure, and the man screamed out.

He fell to his knees, a puzzled look on his face before he fainted, her arrow neatly protruding from his shoulder. His face was lit in the yellow from the clouds, and was…

Maker, it was Professor Kenric. “You stupid man,” she yelled, running across to get her arrow out of him as safely as possible. Blood spurted from his shoulder, spattering her hands as she eased the arrow free. The cut wasn’t as deep as she feared – seemed his fancy Orlesian armour must be good for something. She untwisted her woollen scarf from her face, and wrapped it around his shoulder as a makeshift bandage, cursing herself as well as him. “What were you thinking of?” she muttered.

Snow was falling again, covering both them and her discarded bloody arrow in fine white flakes. He was just beginning to come round from his faint as she dragged him under his arms, through the door she’d wedged open and into the shelter of the mage tower. Maker, he was heavy – more muscle and bone than she’d expected, even if he was a human. And his skin was pale and cold.

Harding laid him on the flagstones, kicked away the wedge and leaned against the heavy door to shut it, fighting the wind. She grabbed a match from the pouch at her belt, and lit the torch beside the door. More yellow. They’d yet to clear the room of barrels and desks, and dust and straw lay heavy on the ground. She stared down at Professor Kenric, catching her breath. Of all the people that it could have been, it had to be the one she’d had a crush on for the past two years. He wore thick winter armour, and a feathered helmet. His eyes flickered open, and he tried to focus on her.

“Lady Harding?!” He looked shocked, eyes wide. “You shot me!”

The man was a master of stating the obvious. “You were climbing into my castle,” she retorted, dropping to her knees beside him. “ _Of course_ I shot you. Now, before I work out which mage I can get to treat this wound, just tell me: why were you on the scaffolding?”

He groaned. “I did attempt the main gate first, but nobody was answering. Is there a party on?”

She’d yell at the missing guard later. “Yes. But you’re in no fit state to be there, Professor.”

“A shame. I always liked the Inquisition’s parties.”

His voice was faint, his eyes closing again. Harding ran across the room and scanned the shelf that held the last of the mages’ wine collection. They’d have taken anything decent, damn them, but from what she remembered of their stay in the Frostback Basin, the Professor would drink anything. She grabbed a bottle of West Hill brandy, about half full by the sloshing sound it made when she tested it.

“Sit up,” she ordered, crouching and putting an arm around his shoulders to help him do so. He winced at the movement; she refused to feel guilty. “Drink a potion then some of this brandy, see if it helps.”

He opened his mouth obediently, letting her tip a healing potion then some of the brandy down his throat. Predictably, it stung his throat and he had to cough several times before he could speak. “Mustn’t forget... my horse.”

At first she thought she’d misheard, but then the penny dropped. “You rode here,” she deduced.

He chuckled weakly, his voice light and teasing. “Oh, Lady Harding. You didn’t think I walked from Val Royeaux? I left her at the front gate, tethered, with a blanket roped over her for warmth. The First Day gifts for everyone are in her saddlebags. Could you arrange for her to be taken to the stables?”

The poor horse. Harding got to her feet, shaking her head at him. With everyone at the party, likely the missing guard as well, she’d have to unlock the heavy gates herself, and sort out the horse. With luck she could still find Keeper Hawen by the aravels near the stables rather than in the Great Hall. Frustration brought words to her mouth she usually kept inside. “You do realise, Professor, that every time you say to me, _could you arrange_ , it’s me that does the job myself?”

Professor Kenric looked startled. “Every time? What do you mean?”

A faint flush of red came to Lace Harding’s cheeks. There was no reason why this clever man would remember anything he said to her. It wasn’t as if she were important to him. “Never mind.”

It was only later, as she scurried back up the snow-covered steps, trailed by the solemn old Dalish Keeper, that the Professor’s words sank in. _From Val Royeaux._ _The First Day gifts._ _Damn_ the Divine, Maker forgive her, and damn her sense of humour. If she’d only told them that her friend Professor Bram Kenric, the famous scholar from the University of Orlais, would be bringing the presents in person, then Harding would have… what? Laid on a welcoming party? Had time to iron her uniform?

At the least she would have made sure that the guard had stayed at his post. She pushed open the door, aware that she had been gone for longer than she had intended; belated apologies hovering on her lips. But at the sight that awaited her, words failed. That stupid man – that stupid, _very handsome,_ man, said a traitorous voice in Leliana’s accent – had undone his armour and shirt, taken off his helmet, and was examining his wound with interest, dabbing at it with her scarf.

Yet all she could think was that she’d never seen him without some kind of hat before. His hair was as red as her own, and without the hat he looked so… young. Almost vulnerable. She squashed the maternal instinct down into her boots. Yet better to think about his hair than his muscles, or the pelt of red chest hair that even Varric might envy; or about the arrow she had shot at him, poor lad.

Letting Keeper Hawen pass her, she introduced them briefly. “Bram… I mean, Professor Kenric: this is Keeper Hawen, the Keeper of the Inquisitor’s clan. Keeper, Professor Kenric has an arrow wound in his shoulder. As you can, er, see.” She looked away, closing the door, her cheeks hot, and tried not to delay obviously in turning back. Maker, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen plenty of half-naked – or even fully naked – men before. Just… this one was different. _Special,_ whispered that voice.

“How did you come by this?” asked the Keeper courteously, carefully kneeling down on the straw, robes and all. His hands waved some kind of healing spell, and dark blue magic sang in the air.

Professor Kenric glanced up at her, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Did you not tell him?”

She flushed even redder, but was determined to tell the truth. “I thought he was an intruder. He was climbing the outside of the castle because the gate was locked. The stupid guard went to the party.”

Keeper Hawen continued focusing on his spell for a few more seconds; they all watched Bram Kenric’s flesh heal up, and Scout Harding let out a breath that perhaps only she realised she had been holding. “You ought to reprimand that guard,” said the Keeper. He liked to give her advice.

“I’ll make him wish he’d never been born,” muttered Harding viciously.

The Professor looked uncomfortable. “Och, don’t be too hard on him,” he said, flexing his shoulder. “With this good man’s healing I feel right as rain. No harm done. Now… where’s the party?”

“Thank you, Keeper Hawen,” said Harding deliberately, glaring at Bram Kenric.

“Indeed,” said the Professor, blushing slightly at his own bad manners. “Thank you greatly, Keeper. Is yours the clan that Inquisitor Ameridan belonged to? Ghilain, I think it was.”

Harding was helping the Keeper stand – he was a hardy man, out in all weathers like her father, but she knew his knees sometimes troubled him. Once he was straightened up, he shook his head, a wintry expression on his face. “No, it is not. I am Clan Al’var. Now, if you will both excuse me…”

The door fell shut behind him, and Lace tried not to look as Bram did up his shirt again. The silence stretched out, and she felt she had to fill it. “Your hair,” she said. “It’s, um, the same as mine.”

The Professor looked up, surprised. “I assume you must mean in colour,” he said, after a long moment. “Mine is much shorter than yours. At least, I would expect so. I don’t think I’ve ever seen yours loose. Not that that is a problem, mind… I mean, your braids are very neat and, er, practical…”

He sounded as embarrassed as she felt. “You said you wanted to go to the party?”

“I really ought to pay my respects to Baron Desjardins. And… oh. Did you manage to find Druffalo?”

She snorted. “I ought to ask why you called your horse Druffalo, but I’ll probably regret it if I do.”

“I’m not very good with names,” said the Professor apologetically, getting to his feet. He strode across to open the door for her, bowing slightly as he did so. She bent down and picked up his hat, which he’d forgotten, and offered it to him without comment as she passed him. “I’m not very good at remembering things in general,” he confided, fitting the helmet snugly back on to his head, where it hid all his hair, “unless they have some connection with the early Chantry. I can recite from Ameridan’s journals, or whole letters about the Nevarran Accords, but ordinary things, like names…”

Professor Kenric paused, stopping in the middle of the snowy battlements, and she found herself on her own a few paces ahead of him. He didn’t seem to have noticed the freezing wind, or that they were meant to be going to a party. “Names?” asked Harding, trying to restart his chain of thought.

He flushed, and began walking again. “Your name, for example. I feel sure that you must have told me at some point, Lady Harding, but whenever I try to recall it, it simply escapes my attention.”

She had never told him her name, and _that_ was deliberate. Still… “I can’t imagine you try very often,” she scoffed. “With so many things still to learn about the early Chantry.”

“No, no, you wrong me,” said the Professor. “Since my former assistant Colette decided to focus on purely elven history – not that I think she is _wrong_ to do this, you understand, but it does take us in different directions – I have often felt somewhat… well, lonely. And I, um, thought, that maybe, er…”

They were heading back down the stairs towards the Herald’s Rest, sheltered from the wind, and suddenly Lace Harding didn’t want this conversation to be interrupted by… well, anyone. Particularly not her fellow scouts and guards, particularly not if they were as drunk as she guessed they’d be by now. She stopped on the steps, her boots crunching in the snow, and grabbed Bram Kenric by the arm. The steps made their height differential less… dramatic, and she frowned at him. “Go on.”

“A woman like you, Lady Harding,” he said, more smoothly this time, “would be of invaluable assistance in the field. I remember how useful the Inquisitor was, in dealing with those Hakkonites! If you would come with me, then I could search the island safely, while you handled any fighting!”

The dim candle-flicker of hope that had risen within her heart was hastily snuffed. “Fighting,” she echoed, dully. His gaze was too bright, too alight; she looked down at her feet, fighting back tears. Then, resolutely proud, she shook her head, staring at his belt-buckle. “The Inquisitor needs me here,” she explained, remembering Fen’Harel and her duty. “I can’t leave Skyhold. I promised.”

“Of course, I understand,” said the Professor. He sounded sad. “The Divine did warn me that you were otherwise committed at the moment. But… if you are ever able to leave Skyhold, I would be happy to… er… share my discoveries. I could pay you a very generous wage, for your, er, services.”

“I don’t want money,” snapped Harding. The tears that had threatened previously now sparkled in her eyes. She didn’t care. “I don’t do this for the money!”

Professor Kenric looked appalled with himself. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Lady Harding…”

“Lace. It’s Lace,” she confessed, a tear sliding down her cheek. “And I’m sorry about the arrow.”

“It’s all right,” he insisted, his hand still squeezing her shoulder. “It was my fault for being impatient. A stupid impulse. I just… wanted to see you again. The whole journey, all I could think of was you.”

His voice was soft, with that stupidly gorgeous Starkhaven accent, and all of a sudden Harding remembered drinks at Inquisition parties, dinner at the Frostback Basin camps, and Professor Kenric always remembering to bring her a glass of something, no matter how distracted he had seemed.

“You don’t mean that,” she said in a small voice.

“You,” he insisted, “and your impossible cheerfulness. Your beautiful hair – which, by the way, is a far, far prettier colour than mine. The way you shoot arrows into people that carelessly climb into the castle you’re defending. The way you never seem to take two minutes to think about yourself, or to remember to get yourself a drink. The way you, erm… always do the job yourself, rather than waiting for someone else to get around to doing it – or not – at some point in the future.”

Harding shook her head, unable to take all this in. Her mind was spinning like the snowflakes that were falling all around them. “You really want me to come out in the field with you? If I could?”

He nodded, smiling down at her. His expression made her shiver; she couldn’t read it. “Are you planning to stay here all night?” he asked. She still had hold of his arm.

“I’m meant to be on patrol,” she explained, unclenching her leather gauntlet from around his arm. “You could make your own way to the Great Hall, if you wanted. Baron Desjardins will be there.”

“Ah. I see. Patrol,” said the Professor. He made no move down the steps, and Harding found herself returning his smile. “Well, in that case. The presents can wait until tomorrow, and the Baron will forgive me – he knows that my manners are sometimes more informal than he would prefer! – but I wish you would let me get you a drink. It’s nearly First Day! We ought to celebrate it.”

It was hard to argue with him when he spoke so prettily. “You can get me a drink,” she agreed. “Whatever they’ve got left that’s any good. Unless you’re gone a long time, I’ll be on the battlements somewhere past the gateway tower. Don’t go falling off them trying to find me.”

The joke was barely funny, but he chuckled. “I’m more capable than you think me… Lady Harding.”

It was hard to focus on the patrol as she walked around the battlements. Alone, and yet less lonely than she had been so far this winter. It wasn’t the words he’d spoken, but the way he’d said them…

Steps and towers, battlements, through the Commander’s old office and around by the stables, Lace Harding trudged through the snow. The storm had lost much of its wildness; and snow fell lightly, dusting the castle in white. She wondered if Inquisitor Lavellan had found happiness in finding Fen’Harel, or if the next year would leave deeper sorrows piled upon the woman she admired most in the world. Lavellan had never let being an elf prevent her from being accepted by the Chantry; or the loss of her arm affect one inch of her resolve. Harding decided to be braver.

It was only Bram Kenric, after all. What was there to lose?

Scout Harding turned for the return journey, hyper-alert as ever for the unusual, and as she looked across the pitched roof of the stable, saw the Professor’s figure ascending the nearest battlement stairs. He was clutching two full glasses in his hands, his body bent forward against the icy breeze that made the feathers on his helmet dance. _That was quick,_ she thought, feeling foolishly hopeful.  

She found herself hastening to meet him. The first tower on the way was dry – she lit the torch with shaking hands. Here were two stools – she tested each one to check it wasn’t broken. And there – there at the door, there he was, this lovely, stupid, smiling, clever man – smiling, with that smile that hid a thousand things, as he held out one of the glasses to her. His timing was perfect. As she took the glass, the great bells rang out from Skyhold’s gatehouse. “One, two,…, eleven, twelve!” – they counted, laughing at each other. Then they clinked glasses, Orlesian-style, and drank.

The wine was perfect too. “You didn’t get this from the Great Hall,” she concluded, after a swirling an extra sip around in her mouth. The Inquisition had taught her many new things. “The Baron never gets the good stuff out when he’s entertaining everyone. And you didn’t have time to find him.”

Bram shook his head, grinning like a boy. “You’re right! The wine is the Divine’s present to you all. It’s from the Grand Cathedral’s cellars: an old vintage laid down by Divine Faustine II in the Blessed Age. I thought the Baron wouldn’t miss a bottle if we kept one for ourselves. There’s three more in Druffalo’s saddlebags.”

Harding chuckled. “Is that what they call manners in Starkhaven?”

“No,” he admitted. “My eldest brother would say it was… something else. Not that I’m much good at it, it seems. Too much time spent looking at buckles.”

“Leliana – Most Holy, I mean – says she can tell a lot from a buckle, particularly if it’s on an Orlesian shoe,” said her agent confidentially, taking another long sip from her glass. “In her last letter she said she was sending me a present for First Day. Something with lots of buckles.”

The Professor looked confused. “The Divine only gave me the four bottles of wine that I mentioned. I do have presents from other people. Lady Cassandra Pentaghast sent a dagger in a box. That might have buckles, for example if it were modelled after certain types of early Orlesian weaponry…?”

“No, I’m sure she…” began Harding, hardly hearing him, before the realisation crept up on her and landed a dagger in her back. “Oh, Maker... she meant you!”

Whatever Bram might have said to that, if he’d figured out what she meant in time, was lost as the door from the battlements heaved open. Lace Harding started to her feet, then relaxed as she saw the two elves standing there, dressed in fur for winter.

“The Keeper said that you had had a nasty shock, and oughtn’t to be out on patrol,” said Ithiren, the halla-keeper. He looked slightly annoyed: Hawen had likely dragged him straight out of the party.

“We’ll walk the castle battlements for you,” added Taniel. The old woman was the craftsmaster, and made the bows for the clan. They were both very experienced archers. It ought to be fine, but…

“That’s very kind of you,” said Scout Harding, “but…”

“Yes,” said Professor Kenric, interrupting her without ceremony, “Lady Harding accepts your very kind offer. Happy First Day, my friends!”

The door clanged shut behind the elves, and Harding looked at him warmly. “I can speak for myself, Bram. What would your brother say of your manners now?”

“Brothers,” he sighed, but the twinkle in his eye was unrepentant. “I’m the fourth son, you know.”

“Yes,” said Lace. “The fourth son of Lord and Lady Kenric, destined for a life of Chantry service, until you persuaded them that the University of Orlais might be a fashionable alternative.”

Bram laughed loudly. “Yes, that’s right! Did you hear that from the Inquisitor? I remember saying something of the sort to her once, when we were on Ameridan’s trail. She’s a fascinating woman.”

“She’s certainly made elves fashionable. With Leliana’s help.” Harding looked thoughtful. “I don’t know where that leaves us dwarves in terms of being fashionable. Not sure that we’ve ever been.”

“To be honest, I don’t care that much for fashion,” admitted Professor Kenric.

Lace looked up and down at his clothing, from the feathers on his helmet, quickly down over the tear in his armour and shirt – she’d have to offer to mend those, she supposed – to his very smart boots, and raised a sceptical eyebrow. “You put on a good appearance, then?”

The compliment seemed to fluster him. “Well, I don’t know… look, this is not about me. Och, I’m getting this all the wrong way around. First I sound like I’m making you a job offer, then I forget your present from the Divine, and now you’re telling _me_ that I look good. What a mess!”

“You _were_ making me a job offer,” said Scout Harding patiently. “And – if it weren’t for the fact I promised the Inquisitor, who’s busy saving the world again so that you can study it in relative peace – then I would jump at the chance to be out there with you.”

Bram had been looking deep into his glass of wine, but at this he looked up. “You would?”

“Of course I would, you daft idiot. I love you.”

She’d had way too much to drink, and the wine had gone to her head. A good thing the elves were on patrol, because she wasn’t going anywhere now. “You mean that,” he’d said, and of course she did, and of course he’d got down on his knees, the stupid man, and had found another present in his pocket. It was a necklace – because, apparently, when people got engaged in early Chantry days, they gave these beautiful necklaces of silver and amber, with the amber carved with flames.

“It’ll be too long for me,” she said, uncertain. What would his parents say? What would hers?

“No, it won’t,” he said, placing the silver chain over her head. His fingers brushed her neck, making her shiver. He was so close, she could... “I had it shortened as well as cleaned.”

“I love you,” she repeated. “I never thought… I never thought you’d taken any notice of me.”

“Nothing is too small to be ignored,” insisted the Professor. “Not buckles, not arrow-heads, and…” He bent his head to press a soft, hesitant kiss on her lips, which she returned in force, unexpected joy threatening to explode like a golden Breach inside her. He swallowed, perhaps taken slightly by surprise, but managed to remember his sentence: “… and certainly never you, Lady Harding.”

“We ought to get to know each other better,” said Lace. She slipped a hand up to his face, then realised she was still wearing her gauntlets. _Damn._ She coughed. “The, er, glacier looks beautiful tonight. Would you like to walk round that way by the battlements? That way we can, er, still avoid the party. You can bring the rest of the wine. There’s a fire… in my room?”

He leant back on his heels, his eyes alight with tender warmth. “Lead on, Lady Harding.”

  



End file.
